


he will love you like a fly will never love you again.

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Illness, M/M, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d struggled to grasp a lot of things about humanity, from a long list of things about humanity, and cancer had not been one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he will love you like a fly will never love you again.

**Author's Note:**

> another initially anon askbox!fic sent to supernaturaljackass.tumblr.com, compiled here, except this one is destiel! another ship i really enjoy writing (and accepting recs) for. dean’s (past tense) pov is in parenthesis. post-s8 finale angst.

"Wasn’t meant to be a human." Cas, unseen, bristles. He’d fared pretty well, he thinks, all things considered, and it insults him that his death is now the reason he wasn’t ‘meant to be human’. Because the thing about being human is that it takes far less than an angel’s blade — being human means being susceptible to wounds, to cutlery and deer hunter’s bullets, to disease. But he can justify Dean’s method of coping: in their world of constant war between heaven and hell, no one expected cancer. 

(Dean had always thought nothing would sting more than Sam’s reaction: “So?" The fact that Sam felt like he’d let Dean down enough to die, something entirely on Dean’s own shoulders. But that had been a huge moment - momentous - and left Dean unprepared for the tiny moments that dig a knife inside your chest, deep to the bone, and etch a permanent scar. A hospital room, that blatant familiar smell, a patient doctor, and Castiel’s curious head-tilt and furrowed brow: “What’s chemotherapy, Dean?")

And just like that, Cas was a human with prescriptions. Take this, take that, subject yourself to tests you cannot avoid, because you’re human. He’d struggled to grasp a lot of things about humanity, from a long list of things about humanity, and cancer had not been one of them. Dean drinks a lot after his death, that so absurdly natural death that nothing can be changed. And so he’s an even more supernatural ghost: he can smell the liquor as he kisses Dean’s temple, and Dean can almost feel it.

Dean denounces almost every room he and Sam stay in afterwards. “This place is fucking haunted, man." It isn’t the rooms that are haunted, it’s Dean. One day Castiel hurls that fucking liquor bottle across the room and Dean wakes up ready to fight, a true soldier, and then he sees the shards of cheap glass, smells the scent of cheap liquor, and looks up, meets Castiel’s non-existent eyes. Cas holds his breath: he isn’t a ghost they’re used to, he’s something else. Dean blinks, moves on, forgets.

(Dean had explained to Cas, multiple times, why he was complimented for playing board games with the children without any hair. “But why does it matter?" Cas’ voice, Cas’ questions, repeating themselves every night. Cas sat at that table, the game - Sorry, go figure - between him and an eleven year old. “Because it matters to humans," Dean tried to explain. And Castiel just accepted it. He was thinner than ever and moved a game piece. “Sorry," Cas murmured, coughing into a hand that came away bloody.)

Castiel starts to notice certain things. Dean lowers his voice the way he used to when he didn’t want Cas to hear. One shoulder lifts, his chin dips down, he draws Sam closer. Castiel wishes he had touched Dean more, because he wants to touch him now. He wants to touch his wrist, and murmur in his ear that things will be okay. Dean can’t hear him. Dean will never hear him again. “We need to do some kind of exorcism, Sammy." It’s the weight of the afterlife. It’s a forced farewell.

("I don’t feel very good, Dean." Dean took the other’s hand, clasped it in his own. “No one likes feeling like shit, I get it." Dean wanted to vomit. He’d watched people be taken from him, but he was literally watching Castiel wither away. The man’s skin was cold to the touch. Clammy. “I can’t lose you, man. You get that, right? Just stay with me." Castiel nodded, and his grip strengthened, in spite of it all. “No matter what, Dean. You’ll never be rid of me.")


End file.
